"Tulayha al-Asadi?" Ruqayya exclaimed. "You are putting your faith in that fool?"

"I know not who he is," I replied, polishing my bow with a piece of cloth. "All he said was to seek him out next expedition. For freedom."

"Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid is a fool," Ruqayya folded her arms and scowled. "As are all men."

"Harsh, don't you think? You are speaking to a man, after all."

"You are a boy."

I grunted. "A boy who has seen more grief in eleven years than most men, and women for that matter, did in a lifetime."

"Tulayha is the chieftain of the Banu Asad," Ruqayya continued. "He has always had delusions of grandeur. Though he is far superior than any other city person. Which isn't saying much. City people."

She scoffed.

"He is a nomad then? You are not fond of city people at all. Why is that?"

"Because you are corrupt," she extended her arms in an encompassing gesture. "You live extravagantly, in luxury. You indulge yourselves in base desires and grow fat and soft in your vice. What need does someone have for a construction of wood or brick? A tent provides sufficient shelter. What need does one have for ludicrous silver and gold coins. Is cattle not valuable enough currency? Are camels not? Your lives have no real challenge, no test of will. It is not what the gods designed man for. You lack fortitude, strength, willpower."

"Yet, for all your fortitude, strength and willpower, you're a slave."

She scowled at me then, her brow creasing. "Do not trust Tulayha al-Asadi. He is an incompetent fool that will get you killed."

"Ah," I smiled. "So, now you care for a city person that happens to be a man."

Her words lingered in my mind as the days plodded and drudged. I would set about toiling the fields, tidying the shed up, frequently visiting the marketplace to replenish the house's food supply, and all I could think about was an offer of freedom from a man that was supposedly incompetent.

It had been days since Mas'oud, Yazid and 'Ammar, as well as hundreds of other Muslims rode south to Makkah. They took no swords, no weapons, no shirts of mail or leather. They were clad in a simple stark white outfit that was draped over one shoulder, covering the arm, while leaving the other bare. They were seeking to perform 'umrah pilgrimage at the Ka'aba.

I yearned to go along with them, to see this most venerated sanctuary of the gods. The Muslims could corrupt it all they want, associate it with their false god, but Qusayy always said it was a safe haven for true believers of the Arab gods, a bastion of faith.

"Idols and sculptures as far as the eye can see," he once said. "And the Ka'aba itself...oh, Hanthalah, what a sight it is! Cube shaped and serene, swaddled in white covering. Dozens of the finest poems pinned to it. And the shrine of Ibrahim, ancestor of Arab and Jew alike! Marvelous."

But it was an endeavor for Muslims only, Mas'oud had said.

"No Jews allowed," he'd rasped.

"I'm no Jew! I'm a Muslim."

He only spat and left.

But it wasn't all bad.

In the shed, Ruqayya and I were virtually undisturbed by Mas'oud's remaining wife and youngest children. There was no one around to smack me for laxing around or 'reprimand' me for performing poorly, so the week or so it took the Muslims to return was blissful.

In those few days of respite, I found time to cut my hair that hung wildly to the small of my back. I smoothed and polished my bow, sharpened my arrows and fletched some more. I did contemplate burning the shed and running away; but I knew I would only be hunted down and suffer horrible consequences, and so I walked the streets of Yathrib while my sore muscles recovered from the rigorous drills I imposed on myself to regain strength and spirit.

The upper districts were empty of any free Muslims, the vast majority of the fit men and women journeying to Makkah. There were fewer mounts and the odd slave boy roaming around, scaring off a stray dog. I absorbed the still air, grateful for the rare quiet. It felt almost surreal, not being harangued to perform one task or the other. Left alone, my thoughts were even darker than usual, and I imagined all the potential cruel deaths Mas'oud and his family would face at my hands. Everyone of them deserved death. From the youngest infant to the oldest son. I would gladly serve it to them on a golden platter, I thought. I would take great joy in their demise as I had Habib's. They all deserved no less, and I would brace their feeble attempts at resistance, only me and my bow.

But the idle, naïve thoughts of an eleven-year-old were cut short. The Muslim returned one day. With word of peace.

"What are we going to do with ten years of peace? I mused aloud. "Sit on our hands?"

"You are more a fool than I thought if you think there will be peace," Ruqayya bit back.

"You think someone will betray the peace?"

"Perhaps," she responded. "But that's not what I meant. The Quraysh are not the only enemies of the Muslims. Nor is Makkah their only goal. This peace only removes a thorn in the Muslims' side; eliminates the looming threat to the south."

"You think they will venture elsewhere," I guessed. "To fight a people who are not allies of the Quraysh."

"City people," Ruqayya's mouth curled upward. I noticed there was fondness to that smile now. "So blind."

May 628 AD, Muharram 7 AH

And that was how I found myself before a towering fortress perched atop a massive crag.

The oasis of Khaybar had long since been home to Jewish tribes. Situated just north of Yathrib, it posed a threat to the Muslims. Prior to the peace that was now being referred to as the Treaty of Hudaybiyyah, the people of Yathrib were caught between two enemies. Their main nemesis – the Quraysh of Makkah to the south, and the Jews of Khaybar to the north.

The Jews of Khaybar had lent support to the confederate army at the Battle of the Trench. They offered shelter to the exiled Banu Nadir after their expulsion from Yathrib. Now that the southern border was cleared of any danger, Khaybar was ripe for the plucking. There would be no Qurayshi army attacking us in the rear to relieve Khaybar from peril.

The fortresses here were of a superior quality to the ones back home. The walls here were significantly taller, casting a dark shadow over the agricultural oasis of Khaybar. They were made exclusively of stone, where the fortresses in Yathrib were crude constructions of brick, wood and clay.

These also had ramparts – fighting platforms that gave the defenders an opportunity to rain down a hail of arrows and boulders on the besieging Muslim forces. The fortresses' defenses were compounded by their positions on steep rises – hills, crags and the like. A force attempting to storm the walls would need to climb the slope all the while hindered by a gale of projectiles assaulting them from above.

There were many fortresses manned by different families. As a result, the Muslim army was divided into separate forces to cut off the besieged fortresses from one another. We were camped at the foot of quite possibly the largest and most intimidating one of them all. To make matters worse, it was surrounded by dense marshland.

Past the walls, I could see lush meadows and rolling plains, lovely cultivated fields, lands fit for farming as well as grazing. But the thin strip of land where we were forced to surround this particular fort was riddled with bogs and shallow pools. There were two palm groves flanking our encampment on either side, where the water was deepest under the shade of the trees.

The Jews had not been warned of our advance, and so we had taken them completely by surprise. By the time we were at their doorstep, and we were in full sight of the farmers tending to their fields, it was too late. The farmers dropped their baskets and their spades, hurrying to the safety of their stone walls. Their nomadic allies that had lent them support during the Battle of the Trench had either been re-subjugated or crushed, so now they were isolated, with no hope of a relief force or any sort of reinforcement.

"How long do you think this will last?" a man inquired at my side.

We were in the usual archers' formation; our bows were nocked but lowered. Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas stood vigilant at the back of our neat line of bowmen. We were standing in an ankle-deep puddle, awaiting further orders.

I turned to look at the man addressing me, annoyed, my anger brewing.

But then my jaw dropped.

Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid was an undeniably comely young man. He did not wear his beard in the same manner as the rest of the Muslims; instead, the customary drooping moustaches of the Arab tribesmen adorned his lips. He was square-jawed, with dancing eyes, a contagious smile and undeniable charm.

"Who are you?" I demanded of him. "And what do you want from me?"

There was a glint to Tulayha's eyes as he smiled down at me.

"I want your freedom, brother," he replied, voice conspiratorially low. "It is my duty to free you as Apostle of Allah."

"Apos – "

"Draw!" Sa'ad ibn Abu Waqqas' booming voice interrupted our conversation. The creak of bowstrings and the shuffling of feet drowned out all other noises.

There were three columns of infantrymen before us – men on foot, wielding spears, swords and shields. The front line was composed of a group of men struggling with a battering ram; it was a large monstrosity of oak that required at least ten men to lift. That group was protected by another of a similar number, sheltering them from the enemy archers atop the walls with their shields.

At the rear of the warriors trudging up the incline, I saw the distinguishable figure of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab. He was the field commander of our force. He was calling out orders from atop his saddle.

The Jewish archers atop the ramparts began showering the men below with arrows once they were within range, or otherwise crushing them with boulders. One man was hurling down a pail of animal dung.

"Loose!"

Our arrows flew, hissing through the air, mingling with those of enemy. We fired at the archers atop the ramparts, but it was a difficult shot. They were a distance away, elevated on crag and wall alike. Many of our arrows swerved wayward or skidded uselessly to the ground.

The fort's large oak door creaked and crashed as the men heaving around the ram began battering it. 'Umar's tactic was to overwhelm the fort using sheer numbers and brute force. But, for every crash and every splinter of the wood, there were the shrieks and cries of men struck by enemy artillery, or the crunches of shattered bones, crushed by boulders and millstones.

The gate held firm while men died at the fort's walls. We were focused on our own task. One volley of arrows followed another, while our comrades died at the foot of the walls. Sooner rather than later, 'Umar was forced to withdraw lest suffer too many casualties.

Chaos reigned supreme as the ranks of warriors retreated back to camp. Their shrieks were accompanied by frantic commands, ordered in the booming voices of the Muslim officers.

Men clambered past one another to escape the clutches of death, but those men were the first to die, either struck in the back by a Jewish arrow, or trampled to death by their own comrades. We were forced to cover their retreat, advancing forward to deflect the defenders' attention, shooting at them all the while. Some retreating troops lingered to shield us from the enemy's volleys. Once we were safely out of bowshot, the Jews on the ramparts began jeering at us, reciting derogatory verses of poetry, tossing javelins in our general direction threateningly, skidding uselessly at our feet.

"You wanted to know how long this siege would last?" I asked Tulayha back in the tent we shared in between mouthfuls of dates. "I'd ask you how long do you think we would last."

"The false prophet will emerge from this victorious," Tulayha reassured me. "It is my revelation."

"Don't tell me you're planning on freeing me through...revelation."

Tulayha was an enigma to me. He was apparently a chieftain of a nomadic tribe, yet he did suffer from delusions of grandeur, as Ruqayya so eloquently put it. The man genuinely believed he was the prophet of his own religion. He did not speak of his claims openly, obviously.

Instead, the dashing young man attracted others through use of charisma and humor. He would keep us up at night, huddled around our campfires, speaking of the tales of grandeur and heroism his tribesmen achieved, or otherwise jests that would send ripples of laughter through the ranks of archers.

I did notice that the more pious of our unit, however, shunned Tulayha, I noticed. Men whispered behind his back that he still worshipped the old gods – the real gods. Tulayha never put those rumors to rest, preferring only to smooth his comrades with honeyed words and sweet smiles, the occasional pat on the back.

I could see where the rumors sprang from; he never mentioned Allah in his speech; and the man spoke often. He would show up to prayers late, in no haste to commence, showing an evident disrespect for the tenets of Islam.

I took a liking to Tulayha.

But even in those days, I did sense there was something off about him.

"How do you propose to free me?" I asked him another day 'Umar sought to storm the fortress. We were aligned in our usual formation. "Are you going to pray me to emancipation?"

"We will speak no more," Tulayha commanded briskly, eyes fixed on the archers on the walls. "Seek me out in Madinah."

"But – "

"No more."

I was going to argue further, but my attention was diverted to the sudden silence that washed over the ranks of archers and infantrymen alike.

The gate of the fortress was creaking open.