September 636 AD, Sha'aban 15 AH

It was well into the month of Sha'aban that I returned once more to my home city; Yathrib, where I was bred and raised. By then, fifteen years after the Muslims fled their city for my own, it was known as Madinat al-Nabi; Madinah for short.

And, it was the beating heart of a thriving new political power.

When Muhammad died, his lifelong friend, Abu Bakr, was selected by the chieftains of Madinah – no, Yathrib – to succeed him, donning the title of Khalifa, which literally meant 'successor'.

Nearly four years later, this Islamic state had spilled out of Arabia and poured into the Roman lands of greater Syria, as well as the Persian territories in 'Iraq.

It was a month after the Battle of Yarmouk that I found myself panting with anxiety at the doorstep of this leader of the Muslims. Among the Romans, he had only ever been called 'king', 'Arab King', or simply king of the barbarians.

The Roman army had broken at Yarmouk, leaving vast swaths of Syria and Palestine ripe for the plucking. Khalid and the other Muslim generals had ventured north to reconquer what they had lost in their evacuation to reach Yarmouk, while I decided I would not risk my wounds festering any further. Besides, everything I sought rested in Arabia. Not in the lands of the Romans.

Khalid was inclined to agree. I was sent with a party of dispatched messengers returning to Yathrib to inform this king of the Arabs details of their great triumph in Syria. So, I grabbed bow, sword and quiver and bid my brothers farewell.

So, there I was, standing in the city where it had all started, standing before a simple house of thatch, palm wood and clay. The setting sun painted the sky a gorgeous pink. My stomach rumbled, calling out for succor. A stray cat hissed nearby. I noticed a bird flapping overhead, traveling north.

An omen from the gods; perhaps a message that what I sought lay north. Should I travel back to Syria? Were the captors of Mother there, participating in these conquests, vying for women and gold and riches like the vagabonds they were?

Or instead, were the deities in the sky suggesting that the children of Mas'oud ibn al-Aswad, my wretched master, dwelled there. Two sons and a daughter, I remembered. They were too young to have remembered anything. But I'd made a promise all the same. A promise to Mas'oud's dying son, Yazid. That I would hunt his siblings down and put them all to the sword. And if they had children and spouses of their own...who was I to separate families?

Or were the gods tricking me? Sending me a false message only to send me on a wild chase, fruitless and meaningless only to amuse their fickle selves. The gods are not to be trusted. They are capricious and treacherous.

Yes, I thought. The latter seems the most likely outcome.

Before that shed, my mind raced with endless possibilities. The Nubian interrupted my train of thought, shuffling from one foot to the other behind me. So I studied this home of this king, Abu Bakr.

In Alexandria, the lowliest tribunos, or any politician of little note would have boasted of a sprawling villa complex with cultivated fields, sculptures adorning aforementioned gardens, stout pillars, colonnades, porticos, plastered walls, elaborate mosaics and heavy golden crosses.

The king's abode did not incorporate any of these ostentatious luxuries. I stood before a simple shed, made of clay and thatch and wood. There were unsophisticated patterns painted on the walls on a fading sky-blue color in the background. But otherwise, it was unornamented.

This was the house of a man that held dominion over massive swaths of territory, multiple peoples and tribes, yet expanding into more lands. A man that was challenging the world's two mightiest superpowers.

And it was indifferentiable from the home of a well-off shepherd.

In my mind, Abu Bakr was the man beyond that door. However, when it creaked open, revealing a timid man in his early twenties, beckoning me inside, I discovered the identity of this king. And I was be greeted with a rush of incoherent emotion.

Inside the shed, seated on a simple wooden bench was 'Umar ibn al-Khattab.

'Umar had not changed very much since last I saw him. His was a towering figure, I remembered, and notoriously powerful of build. He was a renowned warrior of repute, and in his days of youth, an accomplished wrestler.

His bald head gleamed in the faint light of a dozen candles; I remembered he had a patch of hair clinging around his skull like the shade of a crown. His complexion was that of a reddish-brown tint. His cheeks were sunken in, sitting straight-backed on the bench that apparently served as a throne?

His dark eyes were fixed on a plate of grapes laid down to him by a topless slave girl. The only difference between then and now were the grey streaks in his beard.

The girls were the one thing in the shed that gave hint of the fact that the man who dwelled here was of any significance or distinction. They only wore a scant bit of cloth around their waists that barely covered the nudity of their thighs. Their hair was loose and unbound. These were not Muslim girls.

"The property of our right hands," 'Umar barked with laughter when he saw me gaping. It was the term used to refer to those captured as plunder in conquest.

My breath caught in my throat. In a way, this man had raised me and armed me with the basic skills of warfare. There was a time when I held him in awe and reverence. But his image had long since been distorted in my eyes; he had stood by and watched as I was banished back to my family. He had taken an active role in the massacre of the Banu Qurayza. He did not balk at Mas'oud's claim of me as his property when all had been done and dusted.

For years, I had dreamt of the vengeance I would heave upon him once we crossed paths again.

Instead, I gaped at him with an open mouth and blurted out, "Where is the leader of Muslims?"

The innocent inquiry was met with another bark of laughter, a harsh rasping noise in his throat. 'Umar plucked another grape from his plate and tossed it into his mouth.

"He sits before you."

"I had reason to believe Abu Bakr held such a title."

"Abu Bakr passed two or so years ago, peace be upon him. It is I that is now burdened with the responsibility of Muhammad's ummah."

I said nothing for a moment. Finally, with haste, I fell to one knee before him.

It was an innocent gesture born of years spent in Roman lands.

But it earned me a whack on the side of my head by a furious 'Umar all the same.

My vision blurred momentarily as I toppled to my side and my breath caught.

Fuck, I thought, cradling the side of my head against the imminent pain. My face had just begun to not hurt. Yeah, there it is.

I doubled over in pain as my head rang with the effect of the impact.

"Do you take me for a tyrant?" 'Umar boomed, finding his feet. His grip on the cane he used to strike me was knuckle-white in contrast to his beet red complexion of rage.

There's the short temper I remember, I thought, laughing.

Even the young man who ushered me in began sniggering. He gestured downward with both hands in a calming gesture.  "We don't do that here." 

"Why did you hit me with the cane?" I asked amicably, caressing the side of my head and finding my feet.

"It's sort of his thing," the young man that ushered me into the shed said from the side of the room.

'Umar looked down at me, perplexed at my reaction. Even in my prime, he stood some inches taller than me.

"You're...laughing that I hit you?"

"You don't remember who I am," I nodded. Of course he wouldn't. "Much has changed. I am a man now. And you, king."

I inclined my head in respect.

'Umar looked at me for a good long while, evidently bemused. Finally, he threw his head back and guffawed.

"King?" he demanded, snorting with laughter. "Who are you, boy? How do you speak our tongue yet seem so...alien?"

I looked around the room, studying its every detail, registering any object that could be used as a weapon or a tool as part of stratagem I could conjure any moment should this interaction prove hostile.

I was surprised at how accessible he was. He was not swarmed with a horde of guards, nor did he occupy a palace filled with chamberlains. The young man that acted as his only company was slight of build, timid and unarmed. The slave girls carried no knives, nor did 'Umar himself boast of sword and dagger. Only that damned cane.

"Hanthalah ibn Ka'b," I announced, bracing myself for whatever outcome this revelation would see unfurl. "Al-Qurayzi."

That gave him pause. "Qurayzi?" he blurted out. "You stand Jew? You ought not stay in the vicinity of Madinah for more than three days."

"Jew no longer," I put in immediately. "I was molded into such by your hands. I learned of the righteous path at the feet of Bilal ibn Rabah, and the ways of war at the hands of Zaid ibn Haritha. I learned honesty, benevolence, wisdom, trustworthiness and courage under the words of 'Umar ibn al-Khattab."

'Umar nodded. He smiled warmly. "Raisin head."

__________

'Umar scoffed beneath a mouthful of grapes. "You were fool enough to take up arms with Tulayha?"

"I had little choice. He offered me my freedom."

'Umar nodded in understanding. "An enticing offer for any man. Yet, you survived Buzakha and the Sword of Allah."

I remembered Abdul Ka'aba's sacrifice. It would never be forgotten.

"I fled the field of battle when the day was lost and rode hard for the lands of the Romans."

"The lands of the Romans. You joined your master in Damascus?"

I froze. My breath caught in my throat and my thoughts slurred.

'Umar knew of what I had done to Yazid and his family? How was this possible? It seemed almost poetic that I would meet my end when I finally returned to this damned city. Fuck the gods.

I was considering bolting through the door and darting away in order to evade capture and certain doom when 'Umar spoke again. Perhaps I could reach for my sword and skewer him? But no. Years of hatred harbored within my heart evaporated in a few tender minutes with a man that came to represent the innocence of youth and all the trappings nostalgia entailed.

When I looked at 'Umar ibn al-Khattab, I did not see the man who chopped off my brother's head, nor did I see a man that facilitated my life in servitude.

I saw warm afternoons spent under the blistering sun, sparring with wooden sticks or aiming for palm trunks. I heard the nickering of a horse and the thump of its hooves on the sand of the yard before the stable. I heard the creak of a bowstring and the jubilant banter of young boys. I felt the pricking of straw against my body as I drifted off to sleep, a sensation that came to represent safety and security. I saw Mundhir wriggling putrid smelling toes, grinning all the while, or 'Amr solemnly reciting religious verses. I heard Bilal sounding the adhan in a sweet, resonant and melodic voice.

I saw 'Amr's scowl.

I heard Mundhir's laughter.

"I..." I began, stuttering. Finally, with a resolve, I raised my head. I respected this man too much to lie to him. "I am ready to be reprimanded as you see fit."

"Reprimanded?" 'Umar raised an eyebrow. "Tulayha himself has been pardoned, as have those followers that have embraced Islam. You have naught to worry about so long as you stand Muslim."

"Wait. Tulayha. He yet lives?"

"He ran to Damascus with his tail between his legs, accompanied only with his wife. When we captured the city, he claimed he had found the righteous path after Shaytan had coerced him into most heinous act. We had no choice but to spare him and return him to the fold. He is a Muslim. Though he is not allowed to partake in our wars against the Romans and the Persians; a ban shared by tribesmen of Asadi blood, those who joined him in his misguided crusade."

Tulayha, I thought, realizing what he was talking about.

My breath eased and I wiped a thick sheen of sweat from my brow. He was referring to Tulayha. Not Yazid. Tulayha. The messenger without a message.

I nodded. "A wise choice."

'Umar leaned forward and stroked his beard. "Perhaps you ought to be similarly reprimanded."

I bristled at the suggestion. "I have proven myself a true repentant. I was of the Roman army at Yarmouk, but an angel visited me in a dream one night and stirred me to set foot on the righteous path and reinvigorate my soul in doing so."

'Umar had an amused look on his face. "And you turned cloak."

"My destiny was to smite the enemies of Allah," I replied, trying to sound as pious as I could. "I cut down a Roman officer and offered his head to the Muslim general, Khalid ibn al-Waleed, in the name of Allah. And I was accepted into the hordes of the believers. Praise be to Allah."

That wasn't entirely true. I think Khalid saw through my charade in his tent and the farce of decapitating Dalmatius. When the Romans were overrun and the Muslims basked in their plunder, I was denied the sum I had earned from ambushing the pirates at Pharos Island and the amount I earned from the hippodrome. I would have balked at the command, but I remembered Khalid's threat of sharing fate with a man called Malik ibn Nuwayrah. I was not yet familiar with the tale, but I shivered all the same.

'Umar's brow furrowed at the mention of Khalid.

"The commanding general, you said. Khalid ibn al-Waleed?"

"Khalid ibn al-Waleed was the man in charge at Yarmouk."

'Umar's left hand curled into a fist, and the other around his cane. I took a step back instinctively.

He ground his teeth and the red flush was returning to his face. That damned notorious short temper of his. His rising anger was a disheartening sight, and I longed to exit this bloody shed already.

"You were not aware of this, Commander of the Believers?" I asked in a small voice, careful not to direct his temper at me.

'Umar did not respond. It was the shy young man that had invited me inside that spoke.

"Khalid was relieved from his duties as the commanding general," he said, his voice soft and silky. "Abu 'Ubaidah was assigned to lead the believers against the Romans."

"Khalid is a man that strikes fear in the infidel's hearts," I argued. "And he is revered by those who have had the pleasure of serving under his command. Why would he be relieved from his duties?"

"Victory comes from Allah and not from Khalid," the young man retorted. He was soft-spoken and articulate.

"Khalid should be dismissed from the field entirely," 'Umar boomed without prior warning. He was shaking with anger. "He has committed grievous sin in the past and should be held accountable. Not rewarded!"

"We fear that Khalid's reputation has far outweighed faith in the believers' hearts. It is not the man who bears the banner of Islam that lends strength to the arms of Muslims. It is the creator of that man," the young man interceded again.

"You would see him relieved from rightful position for rising to unprecedented success?" I asked.

"The Commander of the Believers wishes not to risk the morale of the men serving under the likes of Abu 'Ubaidah, ibn al-'Aas, ibn Abi Waqqas, all equally capable men. The men are fighting under the banner of Allah, not the banner of the servants of Allah. Victory is bestowed upon us whether the servant bears the name Khalid or 'Amr or Sa'ad or 'Umar. Only with the grace of the creator"

"The Commander of the Believers has a tongue, Anas!" 'Umar barked at his man, Anas, who immediately inclined his head and shuffled away. "Khalid has exacted great injury upon a Muslim. A most heinous act that would displease the creator. An act I should have seen answered with dismissal from the very first day."

I took a deep breath and remembered Khalid's threat. "Malik ibn Nuwayrah?"

'Umar looked up at me. "You are aware of the incident?"

"I have heard the name passed around."

"I will see insubordination reprimanded. Demoting ibn al-Waleed was my first act as Khalifa, and one I would see to unfaltering completion. Perhaps dismissal from the ranks of the believers would be a more fitting discipline."

'Umar saw the reactions his outburst incurred on myself and Anas. His expression eased. "There is no cause for distress, Anas," he addressed the other man. His gaze shifted toward me. "You did not come here to speak of ibn al-Waleed."

I recognized the timid servant now. He was a Khazraji boy who had been servant to the Prophet himself. Anas ibn Malik, he was called.

"I did not," I replied to 'Umar. "I have come to voice plea."

"Speak and see it fall on eager ears."

I took in a breath, readying myself. It was time.

"My mother," I said, voice strained with emotion. "She was claimed by a Bedouin chief when my tribe fell. I would see her spared such misery once and for all."

"She is a Bedouin's concubine, you say. How am I to procure her?"

"You hold sway over all who dwell these plains, do you not?"

"It is not my place to abuse to such authority. You still think I am a king of sorts. You have been influenced much by these Romans."

"I will repay you in service. Buy my mother from her master and I would see you reimbursed with my own life. I would see her freed."

It pained me to suggest such a thing, but I was helpless. I had no means to do otherwise. I did not know what clan of the Banu Ghatafan had taken Mother from me, let alone where they dwelled.

I would enslave myself once more in order to spare my mother such atrocities.

'Umar stroked his cane, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "What need have I of a slave such as you? One that served apostate and Roman masters alike."

"My misguided path can aid you in your ambitions of expansion. I have spent three years in Alexandria, among the Romans. I know the terrain; I know the Roman mentality. I know the strains said mentality has afflicted on Egyptian society. I bear valuable knowledge for your cause."

"We have pushed the Romans back to the fringes of Syria, by Allah's grace, and the Persians will follow to obscurity. All without your valuable knowledge."

"You will find Alexandria not such an easy fruit to pluck," I replied. "Heraclius will not allow for Egypt to succumb to Muslim grip. Not after all what he's lost. Egypt is his breadbasket, the source for much of his grain."

"A rapid campaign of conquest in Egypt...not in the foreseeable future, no, I don't have eyes on Egypt. It would be wiser to consolidate our gains," 'Umar mused. "But...a time will surely come. It is not a poor proposal. I would not be wagering much to lose."

My heart soared at his words. "Also, I am not unskilled with bow and blade. I have noticed you are lacking in terms of security."

"I am safe within the protection of Allah."

"Further protection would not go amiss."

'Umar chuckled. "A man can die in his bed with no prior sign of demise, if Allah wills it. In the Qur'an, it says,

'Wherever you are, death will find you even if you resided in looming towers'.

A man can be spared death at the tip of a thousand blades, if it is Allah's wish to see him yet draw breath. And he can also succumb in his own bed, under the vigilance of wife and children, if Allah wills it. You hold no say in the matter. Raisin head."

"I assume you have found my terms agreeable, then."

'Umar nodded, rising. He cast long shadows upon Anas and I, a hulking figure in the dimly lit chamber.

"I will see your mother spirited from the tent of nomad."

He crossed the room and clasped my arm. "I remember seeing potential in you, when you were yet a dawdling child. A fiery spirit, the fortitude of a warrior. I would see such potential fulfilled. Your place is within this ummah from this day forth, raisin head."

And so, I saw myself branded slave once more.