Quba' was the first mosque the muhajireen built during their stint in Madinah. When the Prophet first arrived, he lingered to the south of the city, on the outskirts of Yathrib, and with his companions erected the temple that would later serve as a gathering point for the raiding parties.

          After the return of the Muslims from their miraculous victory at Badr, the mosque of Quba' acted as the scene of celebration for unlikely triumph. Hundreds of tribesmen, Muslim and Jew, flocked to the mosque built in the shade of dozens of palm trees to listen to the tales of the survivors, compose poems and reunite with loved ones, be they corpses, wounded or the select few that emerged unscathed. There were tents ringing the mosque on all sides, where the wounded were being nursed by the women.

         "The polytheists outnumbered them more than ten to one!" 'Amr exclaimed, giddy with enthusiasm between mouthfuls of dates. "Yet, Allah granted them victory by planting fear in the polytheists' hearts and dispatching angels to fight alongside the believers!"

          The three of us were sat reclining in the midst of the vast throngs of gathered peoples. 'Amr was recounting the tale of the so-called Battle of Badr that someone had passed on to him. Naturally, he lapped up at the flair in the religious aspect of it.

          "Angels?" I asked, unmoved.

          "Angels!" 'Amr hopped to his feet, his hands in the air. "Beings created of light with the sole purpose of worship!"

         I plucked a date into my mouth.

         "Sounds like a dull existence," I replied nonchalantly.

          "Yours is a dull existence," 'Amr growled back. "What purpose do you serve anyway? All you're good at it is filling that belly of yours."

          "I wouldn't go that far," Mundhir chimed in, his characteristic grin drawn on his face. "He's gotten quite creative with making Bilal contemplate drinking himself to a stupor."

          At least I don't believe in beings of light running down from the sky, I thought to myself, tossing another date inside. What a ridiculous notion. Angels. I scoffed.

          The gathering men and women carried a thick stench of sweat that was only further augmented as the crowd swelled with new arrivals. Despite the Muslims' best efforts to pacify the quarrelsome tribes of Yathrib, I noticed a brief scuffle force a pocket of gatherers to part as the men involved shoved and hurled insults at one another.

           The raucous quieted with the advent of three men from Quba' mosque. I recognized Hamza, the Prophet's uncle who was dubbed the Lion of Allah, emerge. His lengthy grey hair was left free to flow, ending in curls at his shoulders. His mail coat was soiled with patches of crusted blood and tattered metal links.

          There was also the willowy 'Ali ibn Abu Taleb, his face stern and his beard so well-cropped that the strands of hair seemed to cling to his cheeks. 'Ali was a renowned swordsman, a man with a strict code of honor. He was a role model to any aspiring Muslim youth; he was the pinnacle of piety and honor that those yet seeking to carve a name for themselves in the world strived to emulate. I will admit that sitting there, watching his head raised his high, his caved in helmet tucked beneath one shoulder, that I was awed by his splendor as well.

          "He killed thirty-five," 'Amr's eyes were fixed on 'Ali as well, infatuated. "All on his own."

         "Thirty-five?" Mundhir asked.

         "Thirty-five polytheists," 'Amr replied. "All on his own. It must have been a fearsome display. No wonder they ran."

          "How many casualties for the polytheists?" I inquired. It seemed 'Amr was well-informed about this battle.

          "Seventy."

         My breath caught in my throat. He single-handedly killed half on his own? If I had achieved a similar feat, I would prance about boasting about it. Unceasingly. Yet the man only stood there with cool eyes, utterly undisturbed.

         "Today," 'Umar was the third man that emerged from the mosque. His voice rumbled, the sheer magnitude carrying his words across the vast swaths of those gathered. "We have attracted the attention of all of Arabia.

         We have broken the Quraysh's reputation for invincibility.

         Ten thousand men!

         Ten thousand men they hurled at us. Ten thousand warriors with blade and spear and bow.

         But they know not that ours was a strength not in numbers!

         Woe to the man who puts his faith in the blade and not the arm that wields it! Woe to the man who carries only hearts corrupted with zeal to false gods, consumed with fear, believing them to be weapons capable of reversing Allah's will! Capable of breaking strong men and steadfast in their faith!"

         The landscape erupted with a chorus of cheers. Men threw their fists in the air and stomped their feet. They quietened a short while later to allow 'Umar to speak.

         "With a single strike, we have shown the Arabs the might of our god!

         We have shown them that evil will have its comeuppance.

         So, spill forth when sword and shield, and above all, faith in your hearts!

        For when the next time the Quraysh hurl at us a horde of idolaters, we will show them that we remain steadfast in our beliefs!

       Against all odds!"

      "Against all odds!" a man in the crowd repeated.

      "Against all odds!" another took up the chant.

       'Umar smiled at the cheers and hoots and whistles that followed, his eyes sifting through the crowd before finally resting on me.

        He pointed at me and winked. I pointed back but he had already spun and began returning to the mosque.

        Ten thousand warriors? I thought. I couldn't fathom what such a number meant. Could it –

         My thoughts were interrupted as I was shoved to one side by a darting man. I lost my footing and tumbled sideways, falling on a shoulder. The fleeing man only looked back once, but his eyes were fixed on his pursuers. Dozens of men carrying unsheathed swords and daggers, howling for his blood as they gave chase.

        I was yanked by my collar, saved from being trampled. It was Mundhir.

        "What is going on?" I demanded.

         He shrugged.

         "I don't know. But I never say no to entertainment."

          I nodded, accepting the logic.

         "Qaynuqa' tribesman harassed a Muslim woman," 'Amr explained, his voice heavy and disapproving.

         "You have the answers to everything, don't you?" Mundhir plucked one of our last dates into his mouth as he watched events unfold. He began cheering for one man or the other, encouraging them to hit harder.

          "Maybe an angel told him," I began laughing as Mundhir followed suit. 'Amr fixed us with a glare.

         But matters began to spiral. The pursuit ceased, and in its place sprang forth a brawl of fists and blades and daggers. Appalled, I shuffled away from the sounds of clashing swords and bellowing men as I saw a sword skewering a man. His blood trickled from the sword's tip, spilled on the sand as his body followed.

         I began shaking, remembering the gasping of a dying man clutching a neck wound, his blood spattering on wall and gown and face.

         Several men I recognized as Muslims hopped in between the skirmishers, attempting to part them, shove them away from each other. I saw Bilal, I saw Zaid. I even saw 'Ali.

         "Behind you!" Mundhir yelled at a man pummeling a sprawled opponent. The man looked up at the jubilant Mundhir, bewildered and oblivious to the boy's warnings.

          He was rewarded with a sword driven through him.

         The man who killed him snarled at the now cowering Mundhir, his expression venomous and unforgiving, his blade dripping red and glistening.

         And he charged.

         My eyes studied the blood on his blade, and I gulped. I remembered the blood on the walls. The blood gushing from a neck wound, flowing through a dying man's fingers. Blood on my lips.

         Qusayy gasped, clutching the side of his neck. He was wide-eyed with shock, sinking to his knees.

         He thumped lifeless to the ground.

         His murderer stood triumphant and smiling over his corpse.

        Just as this man ran at Mundhir, smiling and cruel, relishing an easy victory.

        Never again.

        And I channeled my rage. That banal desire lurking in a corner of my mind, seeking to release every shred of fury within, to unleash unto the world every atrocity it hurled at me.

        I shook with anger as my hands curled into fists and tears blurred my vision. I bit my tongue. The taste of blood only sparked more fury into me and a long, dwindling screech parted my lips, high and horrible.

        The man raised his sword. I plucked a handful of sand in one hand and hurled it at his eyes in one swift movement. He cried out in alarm as he clutched his face, staggering away.

        I leapt at him, clinging to his thigh.

       "My brother!" I roared at him.

       I dug my teeth into the skin of his leg as deep as I could. He grunted and dropped his sword. He began shaking his leg and stomping his foot in an effort to shove me off. But I only dug my teeth deeper in until I felt the taste of warm blood on my tongue.

        Finally, he swatted me away and I landed on my back. He stared at me, disoriented and clutching his leg. He was not allowed a further moment's respite as 'Amr decked him across the face with a blow so powerful that it sent the man spitting out blood and spittle.

        The man snarled at 'Amr and took a step forward as the former began retreating. The bastard picked up his discarded sword and strode to harry 'Amr.

         He raised his sword high above his head to finish the boy off.

         But he was swept off his feet as a stone smacked him square in the face.

         It was Mundhir. Standing there, smirking as he chewed on his dates, a sling in hand.

        The man found his feet, his nose a red mess, tears glistening beneath his eyes. Mundhir only stood there, drawing another stone back on the leather of his sling. I walked to his right and 'Amr emerged at his left. And we stood together for the first time in the face of a foe. The first of many.

        We did feel rather menacing, but no doubt we would have been made short work of in moments. He was a man grown with a sword besides. We were boys playing at warrior with naught but a sling, our fists and sheer grit.

        "Come and die!" Mundhir snarled at him.

        We were spared the outcome of the challenge as 'Umar ibn al-Khattab grabbed a man by his legs, raised him in the air as though he weighed nothing, and slammed him back onto the ground back-first.

        "Enough!" he roared, teeth bared, and arms spread wide. "If any man wishes to brawl, let him begin with me."

        The sounds of steel clashing against steel, the grunting and shouting of men, the thumping and yelling. It all stilled in a heartbeat. 'Umar towered over us all.

       "No man wishes to brawl?" he demanded. "Very well. Men of the Qaynuqa'. Come forth!"

       A moment's silence stretched and not a man answered the call.

      "Men of the Qaynuqa'," 'Umar repeated, sounding more menacing now. "Come forth or I will yank you before me myself."

       That sparked something inside of them. One by one, hesitantly and deliberately, men with tattered clothes, gushing wounds and swollen faces parted the crowds and stood before 'Umar.

       "You have dishonored our agreement," he accused them. "The agreement of the Yathribi tribes with the muhajireen."

       Banu Qaynuqa' were one of the Jewish tribes in the city, allies of the Banu Khazraj. 

       A Qaynuqa' man opened his mouth as if to protest, but he was cut short.

      "You have dishonored the agreement!" 'Umar bellowed at him in particular. "You have besmirched the honor of a Muslim woman! You have shed the blood of many a Muslim this day!"

       "Don't be deluded on account of defeating some Quraishites inexperienced in the art of war," a man from the gathered Qaynuqa' addressed 'Umar. "If you were to engage us in fight, we will show you how you would fare in the face of warriors."

        "Is that so?" 'Umar turned toward him. "Then show us. And we will let your chieftains hiding in their fortresses show us afterward. You are no longer of this nation. You are men without honor!"

         With that, the Muslim men charged the huddled Qaynuqa' tribesmen, howling in their fury. Many of the former immediately saw that they stood no chance in the face of a numerically superior foe, that they would not survive the engagement. They dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, announcing their surrender.

        As the last Qaynuqa'i dropped his sword either in surrender or defeat, and the victors began gathering the spoils of war, stripping the bodies of the dead or the living, we walked away, caressing our own meagre wounds. The man had smacked me on the side of the face. I felt a slight bump.

       A firm grip squeezed my shoulder then, and I gasped in alarm, whirling and ready to fight.

       'Umar chuckled deeply, sinking to one knee.

      "It's only me, raisin head," he had taken to calling me that. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

       He squeezed my shoulder again. And then, his expression shifted into one of sympathy.

      "I bear sour news for you, raisin head," he informed me before rising to his feet. "Follow me."

       We walked toward a tent to the western side of the crude mosque and stepped inside.

      There, lay three wounded men being tended to by women covered from head to toe in cloth.

      I squinted, trying to make out the faces of the wounded.

      And then I gaped as I recognized the man in the middle.

      My brother, Ezra, lay on his back, bare-chested and sweating heavily. I would have rejoiced in his misery had the wound not been so horrifying.

     Ezra's left eye was gone. In its place was a dark pit. An abyss. A socket as dark as his soul. His face was a mess of blood, pus and sweat.

     Looking at his ruined face, the memory of Qusayy's murder re-winded in my mind's eye and my stomach lurched. I jerked my head forward and retched on Ezra's bare chest.