627 AD, 6 AH

I sought comfort from the feel of oak and string between my fingers. The gusts of the night winds lapped against my cheeks and sent specks of sand sprawling my way, flying into my eyes and those of my comrades.

There was no sound but the faint murmurs of dozens of men and conferring senior officers. The desolate plains stretched away in all directions; the flatland marred only by nearby reddish hills and towering peaks.

There were only a handful of lit lamps and torches illuminating the tents of the Banu Ghatafan that day. Had it been morning, these tents would have been cast in the shadow of the monstrous palm tree that dominated the center of the Bedouin encampment.

Arrayed in a neat file of a dozen or so archers, whispering among themselves in excited yet hushed tones, I clung to my lowered bow, an arrow nocked to its string.

I was Hanthalah ibn Ka'b, slave to Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad. And I would get another taste of battle.

The aftermath of the Battle of the Trench was a busy one for the Muslim community in Yathrib.

The wretched Sa'ad ibn Mu'adh who had sentenced me and mine to slavery or death had succumbed to his wounds only days after the verdict. His funeral was one that featured a great congregation of nearly every resident of the city, followed by a mass prayer service where the neatly packed lines of prayers were so numerous that they spilled out of the Qiblatayn mosque. At their head was the Prophet Muhammad, voice resonant, tone austere, acting as imam – the leader of the prayer.

Meanwhile, the Muslim community had gained great prestige and reputation after the Battle of the Trench. They had evaded the clutches of the illustrious Quraysh once again. And so, some loose ends needed to be tied.

We had ridden hard from Yathrib. We were in the region known as Najd, which constituted the lands around Yathrib to the northwest and northeast. More specifically, we had ventured forth to the mountainous terrain known as Dhat al-Riqa', north and east of the city.

We had taken awful pains to avoid being spotted by the tribe's sentries. We marched by night and set up camp in the shelter of valley or ravine at day. Now, a force of over five hundred hardened warriors set their sights directly on the Bedouin encampment, unchallenged, unseen.

The Prophet had gained intelligence that the troublesome nomads of a Banu Ghatafan clan had been recently assembling troops from other clans and sub-tribes. It was definitely cause for concern, especially after the mass defection at the Battle of the Trench that made many question the sincerity of Bedouin tribes' conversion or alliance.

And so, they needed to be subjugated again.

But this expedition was of particular interest to me. I remembered that my mother had been taken as war spoil to a Ghatafan chieftain. The chances of her being here were slim, I knew; the Ghatafan were a large tribe. But it was a chance I wished not to squander. I thanked the gods Mas'oud allowed me to take part.

My unit of archers was commanded by a man called Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas. He was a relative of Muhammad and one of his earliest converts, renowned for his skill with bow and arrow.

Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas was a soldier to the bone. Men said he was the first to kill in the name of Islam, back in Makkah when he had been defending himself against a group of polytheists that meant him harm.

He had a fuzzy grey beard with only a hint of black. There was a patch around his skull that was crowned by a bald scalp. He was short, yet bulky with large forearms. He had an aura of authority about him. The men in our unit shrunk away from his piercing gaze and hastened to do his bidding.

Sa'ad was not giving out any orders now. Instead, our line of archers was frozen in stance, our bows lowered, our gazes fixed on the faint torchlight of the slumbering nomads before us.

"You are a tad too young to be here, are you not, my boy?" a gruff voice called out.

I looked away from the Ghatafan encampment to see an approaching man with a protruding belly and a pleasant face, jovial and grinning. He wore a grey gown that matched the color of his curly hair.

I only studied him curiously as he walked over to me. I did not recognize him.

"Hello, friend," he greeted me, extending an arm to clasp. "What might your name be?"

I raised an eyebrow at him, leaving his hand floating in the air before me. What did he want? I sniffed in derision. But he seemed not to pay my disdain any mind.

I jumped as his sleeve began...moving! Something was up his arm.

He wasn't disturbed, I saw. He was laughing. What an odd fellow.

"Salma must be jealous I'm making new friends," he chuckled. "Go back in now. Go."

I saw that there was the head of a white kitten peeking out of his sleeve. He continued chuckling, smoothing the kitten's head with two beefy fingers. The kitten basked in the attention, rolling its eyes with pleasure.

"Abu Hurairah!" roared Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas at my back. I jumped again at the ferocity in his tone. "Move!"

Abu Hurairah? I thought. It meant the Father of the Kitten.

"Ah, you win this time, Salma," Abu Hurairah continued fretting over his white kitten as he stalked away from our unit.

"Eccentric individual, is he not?" another man called out to my side.

What is it now? I sighed with exasperation, turning to see who this newcomer was. What was it about me that night that attracted the attention of so many?

"You're a slave, then?" the man asked, retaining his grip on bow and arrow. He had lush dark curls cascading past his shoulders. Contrary to popular Muslim practice, he shaved his cheeks and wore his moustache long. "I'm not."

He spat thick phlegm on the sands before us, the yellow staining the ground.

"Good for you," I mumbled. What an idiot.

He paused for a while before addressing me again.

"It might not always be so," he continued. "The name's Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid al-Asadi. Seek me out next expedition. If you want your freedom, that is."

What?

I opened my mouth to respond, but our conversation was cut short by a brisk roar from one of the commanders behind us. Horses kicked at the ground and snorted, camels bleated, and men grunted. I heard the sound of flames flaring and felt their warmth on my back. My scars tingled under the scrutiny.

"Part!" Sa'ad roared.

We scrambled to get out of the way as the neighing and thumping of hooves on sand drew closer. In a heartbeat, a dozen horsemen pounded away toward the vulnerable tents, hunched over their mounts' necks. Each one of the horsemen wielded a flickering torch in one hand, clinging to his horse's reins with the other. We regained formation after the last of them thundered away to the Banu Ghatafan encampment.

The horsemen trotted through the paths between the columns of tents and tossed their torches onto them, one after the other. The flames lapped up eagerly at the goat hair and animal skin tents. With great roars, the fires spread through the columns of tents, rippling through the encampment like a beast unleashed.

The horsemen continued to thunder past as the Bedouin dwelling crackled to life. Men emerged from their burning tents, groggy and scantily clad, blades or spears in hand. Women shrieked frantically and the cries of children echoed through the nearby valleys.

"Draw!" Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas bellowed.

The neighing of horses and confused cries of alarmed men were complimented by the shuffling of archers' feet and the creaking of bowstrings.

"Loose!"

We had been instructed to cut down the roused tribesmen that would emerge from their tents, woken by flame and commotion. Disoriented as they were, taken completely and utterly by surprise, they were made short work of. Our arrows struck true; they stuck out of throats and eyes and chests and bellies. Blood splattered from wide-mouthed faces. Weapons sprawled to the sands from limp hands. Dying men groaned and whispered their final prayers and curses, sinking to their knees, clutching mortal wounds.

I whispered a prayer to Hubal that if Mother was among the dwellers here, she would emerge unscathed.

Still more men shouldered through tent flaps or sought to strike down the horsemen, who were wheeling their mounts around to harry any survivors seeking refuge in the mountains. The dwelling that had been so tender and silent only moments before, was now roaring with gales of flames, the thick tendrils of smoke clutching at the sky like the fingers of dying men.

"Nock!"

The clatter of wood on wood as arrows were placed on bows.

"Draw!"

Ibn Abu Waqqas' deep-throated bellows were complimented with the creak of a dozen bowstrings.

"Loose!"

A great inferno lapped up at the sky, putting all other gales in its shadow. The twang and thwack of flying arrows were drowned out by its furious roar.

More men fell; they were struck as they stood frozen in bleary shock. They were struck down as they rushed past scorched tents and screaming tribesmen and women, blade in hand and curse upon lips.

I no longer felt the terror I had at Uhud. Was that a result of the misfortunes I weathered in my few years? Was it an unconscious decision on my part to remain firm and steadfast in the face of the gods' capricious fate? This world had no place for the weak. A world of cruelty and death and despair. Full of men who know naught but destruction.

Few were entitled to love, yet all deserved slaughter.

More men atop horse and camel were dispatched from behind us to scour the strip of flatland around the Ghatafan dwelling to harry any tribesmen that took flight to the succor offered by mountain and hill.

Once the flames began dying down and the screams and wailing of Bedouin quieted, infantry troops spilled forth to douse the fires and conjure chieftains from the midst of carnage, as well as to collect their prizes and spoils.

Mas'oud and Yazid were among them. I knew they were. Prior to our march, all troops were required to gather at Quba' mosque in the outskirts of Yathrib. I was hauled along, Mas'oud with spear in hand, Yazid with curved blade.

The fervor of battle and deep-throated bellows of commander and alarmed tribesmen alike had died down. I looked away from the blinding pockets of flame that dotted the Ghatafan dwelling, searching for the man who had identified himself as Tulayha. I judged he was, perhaps, in his early thirties. Strong of body, fairly tall. And he had promised me freedom, of all things.

My head darted left and right, searching through the bodies of dispersing archers, dismissed from formation. But I could not find this Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid al-Asadi. I searched through the maze of blackened and still flaring tents, searching for any unlikely hint of Mother.

Instead, I saw Mas'oud and Yazid returning from the ravaged dwelling. The former was rasping with laughter while the other was characteristically silent, gaunt and grim.

They hauled a girl between them, clad in plain dark robes and a shawl. Her hands were bound, and her head lowered.

"Meet your new playmate, Jew," Mas'oud rasped at me.

And then she looked up and met my eyes.

"What are you looking at, city boy?" she demanded.

We were back in Yathrib, in the main chamber of Mas'oud's shed.

Her face was hard, her features sharp, her nose hooked. There was a scar dug deep into one cheek. Her name was Ruqayya.

"City boy?" I asked Mas'oud's concubine.

"Look at you," Ruqayya sniffed. "So soft and weak. A green boy prancing about as an archer. You are the epitome of a corrupt city person."

"City person or not, we're both slaves," I retorted. "So don't act so high and mighty."

She raised her head high indignantly.

"I won't be slave for long," there was pride in her voice. "I'm going to utter the shahada and be freed."

I gaped at her in stunned silence for a moment. Then I threw my head back with laughter. She stared back, bemused at my red-faced roaring.

"What's so funny, city boy?" she demanded.

"First of all, I have a name, and it isn't city boy."

"What's funny," she was grinding her teeth. "Hanthalah?"

"You think converting emancipates you?" I rubbed tears of amusement from my eyes. "You do realize I am technically a Muslim, yes?"

Her haughty expression dropped to one of despair. As if I'd crushed any last sliver of hope right before her eyes while she spectated, hopeless, helpless.

"Then what's the point?" Ruqayya asked as much to herself as to me.

My mirth evaporated as quickly as it had come. It was replaced with a pang of sympathy. Challenging as life was as a slave, I could not imagine what atrocities Mas'oud would commit against Ruqayya.

What atrocities were committed against Mother...

"Keep clinging to the true gods, Ruqayya," I told her, voice firm. "Mas'oud wants me to go and buy some meat from the market. I'll try to smuggle some of it to you."

And so, I left a hapless and gloomy girl behind to discover the life of slavery, while I wove through a maze of sheds and stalls, seeking out one merchant in particular. Once I completed this task, I resolved, I would practice my archery, perhaps fletch some arrows.

"I'm sorry, 'Uthman, I didn't mean to – " a familiar voice, melodious and resonant called out in front of me before the man stumbled backward and collided with me.

"Oof! Apologies, brother, I – " the man gaped at me as our eyes met. I was as dumbfounded as he was.

The stranger was no stranger at all. His white gown contrasted starkly with his black skin. His close-cropped beard framed a boyish yet kindly face.

"Hanthalah," Bilal the Abyssinian greeted me, regaining his composure. He extended a hand.

For some reason, a wave of relief washed over me seeing Bilal. He was a symbol of simpler times. I accepted the hand.

"Al-salamu 'alaykum, Bilal,"
It meant peace be upon you, the usual Muslim greeting.

"How are you these days, Hanthalah?" he inquired cordially.

"I'm a slave these days," I answered curtly. "Thanks, in no small part, to you."

He lowered his head as if in shame. "You did kill a man in cold blood, Hanthalah. Before dozens of witnesses."

I said nothing. He sighed in exasperation.

"Is he treating you well?" he continued timidly. "Your...master."

"No," I replied briskly.

To my surprise, a certain vehemence appeared on Bilal's face. I remembered he had once been an abused slave as well.

"No? What do you mean no?"

He eyed me for a moment then gestured for me to spin.

"Turn around, boy," he ordered me in an uncharacteristically firm voice. "Turn around!"

My lash wounds pricked at me as a gust of wind wove its way through the tears in my cloth gown. Mas'oud had allowed 'Ammar to loan me a gown back in the marketplace 'lest I shame him', but as soon as we returned to the shed, I was required to rinse and return it.

Bilal's forehead furrowed once he saw the tattered garments and inspected the scars beneath. He ground his teeth and spun furiously on his heels.

"Your master's name?" he demanded. His voice was hard, deep even, in stark contrast to its usual silky smoothness. He bent over a stall and conjured a lean wooden stick.

I smirked. "Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad,"

"Abu Yazid!" Bilal bellowed, striding through the open doorway of the shed. "Abu Yazid! Come and speak with me!"

"Who intrudes upon my property?" Mas'oud demanded, emerging bare-chested and huffing from his bedchamber. "Ibn Rabah the Abyssinian? What do you want?"

"By Allah! I swear it by the creator. I swear it by his angels and by the Qur'an. I swear it on the Ka'aba! If I here your slave complain that you deny him the most basic of rights again – "

"Calm down, Abyssinian," Mas'oud rasped, waving a hand at Bilal. "What have I done wrong?"

"What have you done wrong? Have you lost your damn mind? Because I will help you find it. You have violated the laws of God! Slaves have rights. And a Muslim one no less! You have starved this boy. You refuse to clothe him and provide him with decent shelter. You are a tyrant!"

Mas'oud snorted.

"He's my slave," he spat. "I can do with him as I please. Besides, when things go awry, he ought to be reprimanded, not coddled. There must be consequences to his actions. He needs to earn food and shelter, not act as though he is entitled to them."

Bilal raised the wooden stick threateningly.

"Hanthalah will be provided with food of equal quality to yours and your sons," Bilal's voice cracked as hard as a whip. "He will be reimbursed with a fresh, clean gown - one from your younger son's wardrobe. Remember that as he is slave to you, you are slave to Allah."

I saw Ruqayya peaking from the doorway of Mas'oud's bedchamber.

"Tell him to treat his concubines well too!" I barked.

Mas'oud grinned indignantly, taking a step forward.

"And if I don't?"

"I will report this matter to the Apostle," Bilal squared up against him. "And you will be forced to sell or emancipate the boy. You have been warned."

Bilal turned away from Mas'oud before the latter could utter another word, already making for the doorway.

"A black slave barges into my home, telling me what to do with a Jewish slave!" Mas'oud chuckled.

No sooner had Mas'oud finished speaking, there was a sharp hiss echoing through the shed, followed by a swift crack. With lightning speed, Bilal had spun and struck Mas'oud square in the throat.

Mas'oud clutched his throat, wide-eyed and gurgling. He fell to his knees, groaning, struggling for breath. Yazid rushed into the chamber, hands coiled into fists. I skirted the room, making my way behind Yazid in order to offer support for Bilal.

"You will treat your slaves well," Bilal's level-headed tone returned. "Of your own volition or through force."

The next day, I was afforded a new gown.