September 1 632 AD, 10 Jumada al-Thani 11 AH

Now, the opportunity was ripe for Muhammad's life's work to tumble, the labor of years withering in moments. Now was the chance for Tulayha's and his ilk to strike.

The moment word of Muhammad's death reached the tribes, chaos spread like Greek fire. The impressive feat of binding hundreds of warring tribes, bickering over age old disputes – uniting them under a single banner, was one unprecedented. It took Muhammad and his followers the better part of a decade to establish one encompassing nation, one great tribe of all Arabs.

And the death of one man saw it crumble.

The peninsula erupted into chaos. All over, pretenders sprang from every corner of Arabia, inspired by Muhammad's meteoric rise preaching prophethood and monotheism.

A man called Maslamah, derogatorily nicknamed Musaylimah the Liar, was among the most prominent of those who followed suit and named himself prophet in the region of al-Yamamah, further to the east. They claimed he was a skilled sorcerer that attracted followers using breathtaking tricks.

Sajjah, a woman rumored to sully her soul with the dark magics rallied her own tribe in support of her claim to prophethood. She had been a soothsayer, a witch of sorts, they said.

And, of course, there was our very own Tulayha ibn Khuwaylid ibn al-Asadi. Our camp grew in numbers every day, virtually unhindered by casualties since we hadn't a taste of battle in those three long years.

There was another man in Yemen, though less relevant the others.

And those are only the individuals that claimed prophethood.

The political landscape was about to shift once more. The peninsula was full to bursting with rebellious tribes; as the Muslims like to say, 'those who spread mischief in the land.'

Those tribes refused to pay the alms tax to Madinah, refusing to recognize their authority. Others reverted from Muhammad's religion, returning to the practices of idolatry of old.

And all these chieftains leapt out of the woodworks, mobilizing their men for war. The phenomenon of unity among the Arab tribes introduced by Muhammad and his new creed was quickly crumbling, and his memory with it.

"Arabia erupts in uproar," Tulayha told us. "Pretenders and infidels lurk in every shadow, and it is up to Allah's warriors to quell the unrest and slaughter the heathen."

And so, we burst into a flurry of swings, lunges and strikes, the crash of our wooden swords ringing across the dunes and hills of Buzakha – the region we occupied. The muscles of my arms and abdomen straining to keep up with the strenuous daily exercise, my head pounding under the heat of a thousand suns and the strikes of my opponents aimed at it, yet I would not relent. 'Abd al-Ka'aba or another battle hardened warrior would sweep my feet from beneath me with sword or shield, or slam me to the ground or pummel me to my knees.

But each time I fell, I rose once more with a renewed vigor and a thirst for reputation.

Each time I failed, I learned from my previous shortcomings. I would take great pains to ensure that I did not repeat them. And repeat them I did not.

"I'll bury you in the fucking sands, you shriveled corpse," I yelled at 'Abd al-Ka'aba, as he gave ground.

I advanced, using my momentum to pound and clabber at his shield, splinters flying in every direction. 'Abd al-Ka'aba staggered but regained his balance, and he parried my next lunge.

I lunged at his upper body but that was a feint. At the last moment, I maneuvered to strike at his knees. I lunged again and again, at his chest, his throat, his belly.

And with every parry and every slide, the energy would seep out of him and my momentum would build up.

'Abd al-Ka'aba staggered again and with a great bellow, I lunged at his stomach. But he raised his shield in time to block what could have been the definitive blow.

I tried yanking my blade free, but it was firmly lodged into the wood. 'Abd al-Ka'aba was regaining his balance and so I threw my head back and smacked him in the mouth with my forehead.

Blood sprayed from his lips and stained his crooked teeth, causing him to lose his balance once more. His guard was down, and his shield parted from his body and so I lifted my leg and kicked him in the gut, sending him sprawling to the sands on his back.

As soon as his long grey locks tumbled to the ground, I prodded the side of his neck with the edge of my own wooden blade.

'Abd al-Ka'aba burst out roaring and I was aware of all the other men pausing their own spars to watch.

"I promised your arse would meet sand," I told him.

"You've not left your mother's tit, yet you are worth a thousand warriors, you ugly bastard," he croaked, as I helped him to his feet. "The gods grace you with this scarce victory only to entice further humiliation when you to return for more. I'll knock your teeth out then!"

It was a welcome insight to my progress that I bested 'Abd al-Ka'aba in combat. I savored the moment, knowing it would not be repeated any time soon.

I moved on to the next opponent. and the next after that, until my body ached with a thousand bruises and my arms threatened to drop from their sockets.

It was well past dark, and I slept as soon as I rested my head on the ground. Yet, I woke with no reluctance or hint of injury hindering my step, and I resumed my practice with blade and bow. I was unencumbered with useless interludes of prayers and I stopped only to shit, piss and eat. What more could a man desire from the world?

"Tell me more of the Muhammadans," 'Abd al-Ka'aba told me once, beer skin in hand. He belched.

"Do you ever drink water?"

He snorted in derision, taking a gulp.

"What do you want to know?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I hear they have no jealousy or zeal over their women. Because they're Quraysh, and Quraysh are city people. City people have no honor."

"Not all of them are from Quraysh and not all are city people."

"I went to Makkah once," 'Abd al-Ka'aba spoke of it with contempt. "Like I said, they have no jealousy or zeal over their women."

"No," I replied. "I'd say back in Yathrib, the women were like crows. Like the way the ones dress here."

'Abd al-Ka'aba grunted. "The proper way. All Bedouin women are clad from head to toe. Not like the Quraysh. They bring themselves shame. But how did the Muhammadans adopt the proper Bedouin way?"

I shook my head. "They didn't. They were inspired by the Jews of Yathrib."

'Abd al-Ka'aba looked up from his skin, incredulous. "Jews?"

I nodded. "When the Muslims first came to Yathrib, they were not clad in niqab. It is a garment among many Jewish tribes. Perhaps it inspired them."

'Abd al-Ka'aba grunted again and took a sip. "What tribe from Yathrib are you?"

I paused.

"Aws," I lied. The gods only knew what they would make of a Jew among them here. The Bedouin were hard-headed and did not take too kindly to the extraordinary.

'Abd al-Ka'aba shook his head. "Never heard of them."

"That's because all you do is fuck and fight, you ignorant bastard."

He smiled, revealing rotting gums. "Fuck then fight. Fight and then fuck. Can't begrudge a man the pleasures of life. What are you, a Muhammadan?"

"We must return to training," I said. "They say the Muslims have elected a leader from among them. They will challenge us sooner or later."

'Abd al-Ka'aba grunted. "We must be ready when the time comes."

Thus, with a renewed vigor, I set to the sparring once more and felt my muscles grow taut with the exertion. I basked in their soreness and the echoing pain of my bruised and battered body.

I remembered 'Abd al- Ka'aba's tale and swore to exact the same vengeance upon those who wronged me and mine.

Hard circumstances breed hard men.

"Don't lower your shield, you simpleton." 'Abd al-Ka'aba would say, and a dozen other instructions would follow.

I would leap at them with a fervor and abide by every word. War was upon us and I would not shame myself nor my dead.

My mother yet clung to life.

As did Ruqayya.

The death of Muhammad shook the entirety of the peninsula into turmoil and the landscape erupted in turbulence. Word had been received that the Muslims elected Abu Bakr to succeed their prophet to rule the tattered state he had so tenuous a grip on.

In every corner of this fledgling Islamic state, trouble brewed and pretenders to prophethood sprang. The most prominent of them was the man derogatorily known as Musaylimah the Liar.

Yet, Musaylimah resided far to the east in al-Yamamah. I owed both my allegiance and my freedom to Tulayha ibn Khwaylid, another apostate and pretender to the mantle of prophet that contributed to the state of upheaval exhibited in Arabia.

And now, that allegiance was to be put to the test. I was required to fight and bleed for this self-proclaimed prophet.

Three years prior, I had known this day would come. I was not eager to embroil myself in a struggle to fight another man's war, but my anticipation to earn myself a reputation as a free man knew no bounds.

Now was the time for glory, for vengeance, for fire and blood. It was the struggle of deities in their heavens, mirrored on this earth – the false god of the Muslims would wrestle with the Arab gods of old, and their followers would mimic their brawl in the Battle of Buzakha.

Our sentries returned two days beforehand and warned of us of the encroaching Muslim force, eight thousand warriors strong. The sky above was grey and overcast, rumbling with the promise of rain descending from the heavens or thunder abated.

The sentries stalked inside Tulayha's tent, where he rested between his two senior commanders. He was facing 'Abd al-Ka'aba and I. The commanders were chieftains of tribes allied Tulayhah's cause; a man called 'Uyayna and another called Hibal, both chieftains of different tribes that contributed with a small portion of men.

"We have fifteen thousand at the ready," the messenger without a message replied, his chest puffing with pride. "The day will surely be ours."

"'Abd al-Ka'aba," he said, wagging a finger at him. "Gather the footmen and see that they are well-positioned on the hill. We would have the battle on favorable terrain. 'Uyayna, see that the cavalrymen are saddled and braced for battle; you are entrusted with the left flank, as is Hibal to the right. Hanthalah, find a place."

'Abd al-Ka'aba rose first and lifted the tent flap, revealing the first drips of rain trickle from the sky. The glow of lightning added a foreboding element to the impending slaughter, even more so when it was accompanied by the deafening thunder that shook the ground at our feet.

"The sky weeps to herald our victory," the commander called 'Uyayna exclaimed.

"Fuck your poetry, let's fight," 'Abd al- Ka'aba said.

"This can actually prove beneficial for us," I chimed in. "The Muslims are now required to fight up a slope hampered by mud and muck."

'Abd al-Ka'aba spat again.

"Let's fight!" he roared.

"And then fuck?" I guessed, smiling fondly.

"And then fight again!"

I paused to admire this man; an accomplished warrior with a hundred battles to his name and still more victims fallen to the edge of his blade.

He spoke of slaughter as though it were a triviality, a pastime; he spoke with such a certainty of victory that he eased the anxiety I felt rising within, growing with every second the tumult of battle approached.

"Halt!" Tulayha yelled. "Halt!"

Taken aback, we stopped in our tracks as the self-proclaimed prophet stepped outside of his tent. His eyes were distant, and he was shaking vigorously.

"I have a revelation!" he exclaimed. "A message from God!"

"Well, fuck your god, I have Muhammadans to kill," 'Abd al-Ka'aba spat.

"Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening," Tulayha blurted out.

His intercession was met with gazes of incomprehension. 'Abd al- Ka'aba looked at him as though he were a madman, gaze fixed in place.

Tulayha noticed our confused stares and spoke. "Allah's words."

'Abd al-Ka'aba paused to process the words and blurted out a roar of laughter that drowned out any sound of thunder.

"That's your revelation?" I asked. "This is what your god's waited years to tell you? That thunderbolts frighten him."

Tulayha waved a hand impatiently at us. "These are words of grandeur; Allah boasts of the sky he carved out for mankind and the lightning that adorns it."

He raised his voice so others could hear. "Warriors of Allah, this is a sign of favor! Our creator has graced us with revelation, a true sign of victory, a victory to be exploited from this day forth.

Allah delivers his message and we marvel at his wisdom. We marvel, we fight with faith and pride filling our hearts, as Allah instills fear in those of the enemy. We fight, we die, and we ensure that Allah's will is undiminished by heathen. Heft your blades henceforth and slaughter in the name of justice!"

The Muslim army pitched their tents a distance from our own. We were situated at the summit of the hill where Tulayha wished to deploy his troops.

However, that night was one for delegation, not fighting. The Muslim commander, Khalid ibn al-Waleed, called for a negotiation in order to dissuade Tulayha and his followers from shedding blood. It was the same Khalid ibn al-Waleed that saved our skins at Mu'tah.

Tulayhah, of course, never thought to entertain the idea of putting down arms and reverting back to Islam, but he decided to honor Khalid and send a delegation, nonetheless.

Tulayha set forth with his three main commanders, which included 'Abd al-Ka'aba. Each of the four men selected a retinue of slaves and confidants to accompany them to the Muslim camp.

I was among those selected by 'Abd al- Ka'aba. I paid no heed to the dangers of such a request; my mind was clouded by thoughts of the battle to come.

I shared the saddle with 'Abd al-Ka'aba; a position of prestige. During the short ride to the camp, once again I admired the great warrior of repute that had grown in my eyes to so much more over the course of three years.

When I first faced him, sword in hand, on the sands of the encampment, I was frightened by his intimidating aura more than I care to admit.

But the man had mentored me in the art of sword skill as well as all paths of life, and his harsh manner in implementing his desired teachings had eased with time.

During my first days at camp, all I could see was a terrible machine of death, but now, as I clung to the saddle, I was sitting to the back of a father.

Tulayha and his generals disappeared inside a large tent, pitch black. My gaze, however, was fixed elsewhere.

Ruqayya met my stunned gaze with a leveled one, as she stood hovering over the entrance to Khalid's tent.

In one hand, she held a clay pot, and in the other was a lamp, but I was more concerned with the tight gown that clung close to her body, holding firm her full breasts, yet falling short of covering her ankles and beyond.

My eyes processed a thousand features I never noticed when I was yet a boy. Maybe the years had taken their toll on her instead, and she had blossomed into a dazzling young woman of immense beauty.

My heart pounded and I could not find the words for greeting. Yet she acted as if I'd been absent for three days, rather than three years.

"I see you yet live, despite your continued allegiance to Tulayha," she finally spoke. "It seems whatever god exists favors you. Not for long, however."

A smile formed on my lips despite myself. "You would have me follow Sajjah, the prophetess of Banu Tamim?"

Ruqayya shrugged. "The chieftess of Zafar also rises in rebellion. You would do better with either choice than with the glaring incompetence of men."

I walked away from the tent and was pleased to find that Ruqayya did not hesitate to follow. My eyes searched the Muslim encampment and rested on a pen where the Muslims tethered their mounts. The pen was dotted with haystacks large enough to obstruct the vision of any onlooker.

"I am a man grown now, able of body to father a brood of children. What cause would I have to follow the rebels that you speak of?"

Ruqayya scoffed, as I inched closer to the pen. "You would march eagerly to certain death under the banner of a man, yet your pride bars you from fighting for a woman. You prove my point with every breath."

I looked back, favoring her with a smirk. I was pleased to see that she returned the coy expression with one of her own.

So we're on the same page, then.

I reached the pen and stroked its wood, eyeing the haystacks within.

Finally, I paused before the pen to speak to her. A brief gust of wind washed over us as I stood savoring the scars that marred her skin. Her prominent nose. She wore a black shawl over her hair, shielding her from the wind. Her lips were thin and pursed. Her eyes a lovely light brown, the color of honey. I'd never noticed that before.

"I would not belong to any other woman but the one that stands before me."

I eased myself into the pen and prayed to al-'Uzza, goddess of love, protection and fertility, for Ruqayya to follow. The daughter of Allah was pleased with me, it seemed, as my prayers were answered.

And that was the night I truly became a man.